


how fast some landscapes change

by carnival_papers



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 5 Times, Accidental Relationship, Blow Jobs, Coming In Pants, M/M, Slow Build, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wet Dream, accidentally sexual pastry-eating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 05:27:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4047898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carnival_papers/pseuds/carnival_papers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>This man has found a human in the stone of him, cut it loose and taught him how to live. Perhaps it follows, then, that he should care so deeply for Valjean.</i>
</p><p>Javert and Valjean are dating. Valjean isn't exactly aware of it yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how fast some landscapes change

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fightingthecage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightingthecage/gifts).



> Alternative summary: five times Javert thought he and Valjean were dating, and one time they actually were.
> 
> fightingthecage, thank you so much for the great prompt! I had such a fun, self-indulgent time writing this story, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Written for the prompt: "Valjean/Javert. Valjean thought they were friends. Javert thought they were dating. Cue awkwardness, re-evaluation of relationship, and whatever outcome you think works best for the story."
> 
> And I totally forgot to thank [vaincs](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vaincs) and [icicaille](http://archiveofourown.org/users/icicaille) for betaing and helping me through this story! Sorry for bothering you guys with it, but your input was really invaluable to me. Thanks so much!

“This was love: a string of coincidences that  
gathered significance and became miracles.”  
—Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, _Half of a Yellow Sun_

* * *

 Javert offers Valjean a hand as he climbs down out of the fiacre. The gesture should not strike Javert as anything other than friendly—they _are_ friends, after all—but Valjean grips Javert’s palm in his own, holds tight, and Javert thinks perhaps it is a confirmation of something he’s held within himself for a while.

They have been in this tenuous, friendship-like thing for over a year. It is November and the month’s first snow is on the ground, and the long, hot days of last June are a distant memory. Javert had plunged himself into the river and Valjean had saved him—that all seems like some other person’s story now. He has gone through the events so many times that they do not even feel real anymore, but they are.

The facts: last June, Valjean had cursed him with life and Javert had refused to take it. There was the Seine, broken ribs, and water in his lungs, and Valjean in his apartment for weeks on end, doting. Somewhere between the bandages and the prayers, it began to occur to Javert that Valjean might, in fact, be a good man. And, after, it began to occur to Javert that he might feel more than just friendly affection for Valjean.

He cannot be certain how it happened. It would be a lie to say he had not found Valjean attractive even before Valjean saved him. He can recall nights in Montreuil-sur-Mer spent palming at himself, gasping out Madeleine’s name into his pillow or the back of his hand, and guiltily looking the mayor in the eye the next day. Now, strange as it is, his fantasies have turned softer, more innocent—Valjean’s arm steady on his back, their legs long against each other on the sofa, a morning walk hand in hand, bathed in sunlight.

Valjean grips Javert’s hand as he steps down, their thumbs atop one another, Valjean giving a small nod to Javert as his feet hit the ground. The driver is off, having been paid in advance, and they are left standing in the street, the snow falling, their palms still together. Valjean’s knuckle is knobbed and tough under Javert’s thumb, and there are snowflakes caught in the thick white curls of Valjean’s hair.

Javert holds onto Valjean’s hand for too long; he is aware of the seconds stretching even as he does it. Still, Valjean does not pull away or look disgusted, and he certainly would pull away if this were not something he wanted. Certainly. Javert is not sure what this means, though—if Valjean is only being polite, or if he has thought of kissing the rough skin of Javert’s knuckles, as Javert has thought of kissing his.

“Thank you,” Valjean says, and he slips his hand from Javert’s. The winter sun is bright above them; Javert wishes he would have worn a thicker coat. “Shall we?”

Javert nods too eagerly and feels the absence of Valjean’s hand heavy on his skin. He flexes his fingers, shoves his fists into his pockets. Valjean almost smiles before stepping out in front of Javert, just a few steps ahead of him. Javert has walked this path to Valjean’s house many times, and where he used to watch Valjean with the intent of following him, now he drinks in the sight of Valjean’s body—the slope of his back, the promise of muscle beneath his coat, how he moves faster now than he did a year ago, the way he walks in a shuffle, correcting for that prisoner’s limp.

Javert lingers behind him for a moment, watching, before Valjean turns around to him, a rare smile on his face. “Come now, Javert, keep up,” Valjean says, and Javert lengthens his stride. Obeys.

* * *

It is a lazy night after Christmas in Valjean’s sitting room, the fire dying in the corner, candles dripping wax onto the table. They are both a little drowsy, full of too much good food and expensive champagne. Valjean is gloriously happy at Cosette’s announcement that she is with child. Javert, of course, is happy to see Valjean so content.

Javert would not easily admit it, but he has almost enjoyed this holiday season, if only because of the time spent with Valjean. They have spent many hours together here in Valjean’s home, stoking the fire, talking into the night about God and justice and, occasionally, the past. There is so much to mine there, so many instances that bear digging up and airing out, but they speak mostly of the time before they knew each other. Strange, since Javert has never thought much about it—his life has been defined by his relationship to Valjean—but it is comforting to share these untold stories with someone.

Tonight, Valjean talks of his sister and her children and being young in Faverolles. Javert knows much of Valjean’s history already—he has always known too much about Valjean—but this is new information. He mentions learning his trade—tree-pruning—from his father, and how his hands were rough even at a young age, and how his parents both died long before they should have, and how his sister was widowed with seven children, and how he could not feed them, even though he tried and tried.

Valjean stares into the rug when he mentions being arrested, his arm still bloody from breaking through a window for the loaf of bread. “We do not have to speak of it,” Javert says, and it is tempting to take Valjean’s hand in his own, or to press a comforting palm to Valjean’s forearm.

“If it upsets you, I will not,” Valjean says. He hazards a glance at Javert and Javert can see fear in his eyes under the haze of the champagne.

Javert had thought this might be easier. He had thought their being together like this would make things simpler.

“It does not upset me,” Javert says, but that does not sound quite right. He corrects himself. “Hearing about it does not upset me. The—the injustice of it does.”

“Ah, it is—not worth being upset over now, I think. It was so long ago.” Valjean exhales, casts his gaze toward the window, the snow falling bright white against the indigo sky. “Usually I read and pray around this time.”

“Don’t let me keep you from it,” Javert says, ready to move to his feet. He does not want to leave, exactly, but the air feels somehow full of tension now, and if Valjean is reading, he will be silent, and Javert will want to break that silence with wrong words. He holds his tongue and only stands when Valjean does.

“You do not have to go,” Valjean says. “I am grateful for your company.”

 _Oh_ , Javert thinks. It does not take much to sway him, not for this. “Then I will stay.”

Valjean disappears into the other room to fetch a book, and Javert takes it upon himself to stoke the fire. Embers fly up, disappearing into air, and he warms his palms in the heat. Moments like this, he almost feels at home here. Settled in.

He smiles at the idea of that—sharing a house with Valjean, learning to inhabit the same space and to eat from the same dishes and make coffee for two. He cannot think of any other time he has wanted to share anything with anyone. And yet he would sacrifice his solitude willingly for Valjean. Happily.

“I thought you might like something to read,” Valjean says when he returns. He has a Bible in one hand and a newspaper in the other. Javert takes the newspaper and they settle in next to one another on the couch, perhaps a bit too close, the space between them growing smaller. But Valjean does not look uncomfortable, nor does he move away when Javert leans against him just so. “Do you mind if I pray?” Valjean asks, opening the Bible up over his knees.

“Not at all,” Javert says. He unfolds the newspaper, begins to read the headlines, but it is hard to focus when Valjean starts to murmur the prayer under his breath. 

“Pierce, O most sweet Lord Jesus, my inmost soul with the most joyous and healthful wound of Thy love,” Valjean begins. His voice is low, the words coming in an almost musical rhythm, and when Javert glances over at him, his eyes are closed. Valjean’s fingers are splayed on the open pages of the Bible.

The language of the prayer is soothing, and they are sitting close enough together that Javert can feel every twitch in Valjean’s arm, can hear each pause for breath. Again, he redirects his focus to the newspaper and tries to lose himself in those words. But Javert finds himself wrapped up in the noise of Valjean communing with God, of him nearly whispering, “Grant that my soul may hunger after Thee, the Bread of Angels, the refreshment of holy souls,” and knowing how his own soul has hungered after Valjean.

He folds up the newspaper again and sets it on the table next to the flickering candle. It seems wrong to try to read when Valjean is doing this. Javert would rather listen to him, anyway, and his eyes are tired. Valjean breathes, “May my heart ever hunger after and feed upon Thee, Whom the angels desire to look upon, and may my inmost soul be filled with the sweetness of Thy savor,” and Javert thinks of saying these words into Valjean’s skin, this man whom angels have looked upon, whom he is _not_ worthy to look upon, and of tasting the sweetness of him, of being filled by him, how he might finally know God upon knowing Valjean.

Valjean is rocking back and forth just slightly—it would be imperceptible if Javert were not so close to him. He says the prayer as though it were poetry, and it is beautiful coming from Valjean, reverent and blessed. What he would give to hear his name murmured this way! What a gift it would be!

Javert’s head swims, and he does not know whether to blame it on the champagne or the faint, solemn tones of Valjean’s voice. He struggles to keep his eyes open against the waves of Valjean’s movement, against the sound of Valjean’s breathing, against the prayer with words like a song—“be Thou alone ever my hope, my entire confidence, my riches, my delight, my pleasure, my joy, my rest and tranquility, my peace,”—and he surrenders to sleep, his head lolling to the side, finding a place between the muscles and bones of Valjean’s shoulder.

In the dream, Valjean is still praying—“my sweetness, my food, my refreshment, my refuge, my help, my wisdom, my portion, my possession, my treasure,”—and Javert is enveloped by the words, by Valjean saying them, by the thought of saying them to and about Valjean. Javert has the imagined memory of Valjean’s body, his skin cast in shadows and light, and his own mouth trailing across Valjean’s abdomen, the muscles still hard beneath his lips. His mind is clouded with the distant sound of Valjean repeating the prayer over again, but there is candlelight on Valjean’s skin and the warmth of his arms and the jut of his hipbone into Javert’s mouth. And, further off, he can feel Valjean’s arm against his, his hand against Valjean’s thigh, the muscles in his own body twitching and tightening and then sighing, the at once full and empty feeling of being poured out, his jaw slack and open.

“Javert?”

Valjean is saying his name quietly, in that same gentle voice. Javert feels lost. He blinks a few times, comes back to reality. His head is on Valjean’s shoulder; Valjean has closed the Bible and his fingers are light at Javert’s knee.

He bolts awake. His trousers are sticky between his legs and he scrambles to the other side of the sofa, as far from Valjean as he can get. The candles on the table have nearly burnt down and the fire in the corner is hardly more than ashes now, but even in the dim light, Javert can see confusion on Valjean’s face.

“You were making noises in your sleep,” Valjean says, and Javert’s stomach turns. He has already disgraced himself here in Valjean’s sitting room, dreaming of taking and being taken by Valjean—God knows what kind of noises he must have been making. “I was concerned, that’s all.”

Javert wants to bury his face in his hands. How stupid, to let himself sleep on Valjean’s shoulder—to let himself get so comfortable! How foolish! He stands and his thighs quiver; he feels his face heat with embarrassment. “I should be going,” he mumbles, the words not even sounding like words. Javert is quick to button his overcoat in the front hallway as Valjean looks on, helpless.

“Javert, you may sleep here if you like—it is snowing, and late—“ Valjean is moving toward him with the lamp, but Javert can barely stand to look at him for fear of further defiling himself or Valjean. He stumbles toward the doorway and Valjean reaches for him, fingertips brushing at the sleeve of Javert’s coat.

“I shall—I must be going—” Javert stammers, and he nearly trips over his feet on his way out the door.

He is thankful for the long walk back to his apartment, though the frigid wind is unpleasant and he notices a hole in the heel of his boot where icy water leaks in. He chastises himself for falling asleep on Valjean like that—Valjean must have been disgusted, if not only by the too-familiar touch, then by the sounds Javert made. At the very least, he is relieved that Valjean did not notice his depravity.

When he at last reaches his apartment, he strips himself bare as soon as he locks the door behind him. It is too cold to be without any covering, but he cannot bear the weight of the clothes—the evidence of his debasement—any longer. Javert buries his face in his pillow, his back exposed to the chill, and thinks of how Valjean touched him—easy fingertips, light against his knee and arm, without judgment.

* * *

In January, Javert decides to make up for his embarrassing behavior. There’s a café roughly halfway between his apartment and Valjean’s house, and when he walks past it in the mornings, he can smell coffee and baking bread. He and Valjean have shared meals together, but they have usually been under strange circumstances—while he was recovering in the summer, or eating with Valjean to ensure he was not starving himself.

This will be different. Javert has already planned it out in his mind. They will go to dinner, indulge for once, and, perhaps after, spend the evening in Valjean’s garden or near the fire. Javert has taken the time, too, to prepare himself for the night and whatever may come of it. His jaw is smooth, no nicks or stubble, and his hair has been trimmed. A glance in the mirror—he is not what anyone would call handsome, certainly, but at least now he looks well-kept. Valjean has seen him look much worse.

He uses the walk to Valjean’s house to calm his nerves. Passing the café, he wonders if they will sit inside or outside, or if it is too cold to sit outside, and if Valjean will even agree to go, and if this whole idea was even worth it. He easily catastrophizes the situation, thinks of all the ways it could go wrong, and by the time he makes it to Valjean’s door—he hasn’t been able to resolve any of them.

Javert takes a deep breath and straightens his cravat, and tries not to think of Valjean’s fingers undoing the knot, brushing against the thin skin over his throat.

He knocks hesitantly at first, then harder once the initial anxiety over knocking has passed. Valjean opens the door in his shirtsleeves; Javert’s breath catches at the sight of Valjean’s exposed skin. “Ah, Javert! Always a pleasure to see you,” Valjean says, the corners of his eyes crinkling when he speaks. It is entirely too endearing, and Javert feels a horrible, uncharacteristic urge to press a kiss to the tip of Valjean’s nose, which is beginning to flush pink in the cold.

“Are you occupied this evening?” Javert asks. “Have you eaten?”

“Not yet, but—you do not have to worry about that any longer—Cosette has insisted that I am—”

“I should like to take you to dinner,” Javert says, quite bluntly. He rakes a hand through his hair, hopes it is not suddenly sticking up in all the wrong places. “If you will let me.”

Valjean blinks a few times. “That seems—rather indulgent, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps. But I should like to nonetheless.”

“Toussaint will be here to cook soon,” Valjean says.

Javert sighs. “Valjean—” he starts, sounding exasperated, but Valjean waves him into the house.

“Just a moment,” Valjean says, and he is gone into his bedroom without any explanation. Javert takes the opportunity to memorize every detail of the sitting room—the sofa where they had sat, which is now spread with a thick blanket, and the half-empty cup of tea, and Valjean’s shoes next to the door, mud caked on their toes.

Valjean reemerges in an overcoat with a note for Toussaint between his fingers, which he pins to the front door upon their exit.

“It is not a long walk,” Javert says when they reach the street, “but I can hire a fiacre, should you require it.”

“No, no,” Valjean says, patting Javert’s arm. “This weather is invigorating.”

Javert does not say that he would rather hire the fiacre. Instead they walk to the café, their breath visible in the air, Javert’s skin burning where Valjean touched him.

“I cannot remember the last time I did not eat at home, or with Cosette,” Valjean says. “It seems—frivolous.”

“Sometimes a little frivolity is good, Valjean,” Javert says. He is reminded again of the hole in his boot, the melting snow slowly soaking his foot. Again, he starts to go through every possible path of this evening—them sitting outside and being too cold to speak, or them sitting inside and there being too many people around, or the food being bad, or Valjean being uncomfortable—

Javert stops his racing thoughts when they reach the café. It is still early in the evening and there are few patrons inside the restaurant. “Any table you like, messieurs,” the man at the front says, and Javert spies an empty table in the back corner, dimly lit with lamps and candles.

Valjean adjusts his cravat when they sit down, and he shifts in his seat like he’s waiting for directions from Javert.

“Is something the matter?” Javert asks. The way Valjean drums his fingers on the table is unsettling, his eyes constantly darting around the nearly-empty café.

“It’s—it must be years since I’ve been to a restaurant,” he mumbles. “In Montreuil—perhaps—”

Javert, bold, stills Valjean’s hand with his own. Feels the raised veins that run between his knuckles, the fine white hair. He draws his fingertips across the back of Valjean’s hand in a smooth curve, trying to be gentle. “You do not need to worry,” Javert says.

It is too daring a move, probably. But Valjean does seem to relax under Javert’s touch, and Javert feels vindicated and gratified when Valjean nods at him. Javert slips his hand away under the table as the server approaches with bowls of stew, thick with sweet potatoes and turnips.

“This is too much,” Valjean says once the server has gone off again. He dips a spoon into the bowl and pulls up onion and fatty chunks of pork.

“Eat,” Javert says. And Valjean does, and Javert watches, idly spooning the soup into his own mouth. Valjean’s movements are tentative—he does not eat so much as graze, nor drink so much as sip. But Javert takes pleasure in watching his mouth open for the spoon, his eyes close as he holds the sweet potato on his tongue.

Slowly but surely, Valjean finishes the stew, leaving only small pieces of onion in the bottom of the bowl. “I cannot eat another bite,” Valjean says.

Javert stifles a laugh. “There is still dessert!”

Valjean looks helplessly at him. “I couldn’t _possibly_ ,” Valjean says, “this was more than enough.”

“That is too bad,” Javert says, and the server takes the empty bowls before returning with a plate of profiteroles and slices of pear.

“I will have the pear, but that is all,” Valjean says. Juice runs down his fingers when he picks up a slice; he nibbles hesitantly at the skin.

“Have a pastry, Valjean,” Javert insists. The profiteroles are overflowing with whipped cream and the tops are dusted with powdered sugar, all overly sweet on the tongue but delectable nonetheless. Javert bites one of the profiteroles in half, cream on his lips and fingertips and powdered sugar on his nose.

Valjean laughs at him, eats the slice of pear. “You have a little—” Valjean gestures to his mouth, and Javert licks the cream away with a quick swipe of his tongue. Valjean asks, “Is it good?”

“Have one and see for yourself,” Javert says. He pops the other half of the profiterole in his mouth and chews slowly, savoring the taste, letting the pastry melt on his tongue.

Valjean sighs, glances at Javert as though he wants to protest, but he gives in. He picks up the profiterole with sticky fingers newly coated in powdered sugar. Javert watches Valjean delicately bite into the pastry, the thin shell crumbling on his lips. The cream smears across his mouth and Valjean makes a noise of satisfaction, his eyes closing, as he quickly finishes the pastry.

Javert resists thinking about kissing the cream from Valjean’s lips. After he swallows down the rest of the profiterole, Valjean wipes the cream from his bottom lip with his fingertip and puts his finger between his lips, sucking it clean. Javert shoves a slice of pear in his mouth to keep from making disgraceful noises.

“I don’t think I’ve ever eaten anything so sweet,” Valjean says. His finger dangles from his lip, wet. “This is all too much—do you eat like this every night?”

Javert is slow to finish the pear. Valjean dips his finger in the excess powdered sugar on the plate and then licks it from his skin; Javert feels a familiar warmth between his thighs.

“No,” Javert manages to say. “This is too indulgent to have regularly.”

Valjean lazily traces a finger through the sugar. “Ah,” he says, “but this was—very nice.” There’s a glow about Valjean’s face in the flickering lamplight, maybe even a smile. Javert feels rewarded for his boldness. He does not push this any further.

“I am happy you enjoyed it.”

“More than enjoyed,” Valjean assures him.

The server brings the bill, and Valjean predictably reaches for his purse. Javert stops him, presses money into the server’s hand before Valjean can, and Valjean grumbles as the server walks off.

“You should not have done that,” Valjean says, tucking his purse away.

Javert shrugs. “I wanted to.”

Valjean does not argue with him, and Javert is grateful for it. He has wanted to do this for a long time.

When they step outside, the snow is falling again. Javert feels flakes catching in his hair and he regrets having not worn gloves. Valjean, on the other hand, looks thrilled at the sight, his eyes bright despite the ever-darkening sky.

“This was very kind of you, Javert,” Valjean says as they round the corner to the house. “You are too generous.”

Javert does not think he has ever been called _kind_ before. He has certainly never been called _generous_. It is almost laughable to hear such a thing coming from Valjean, but he accepts it. Feels his face flush at Valjean’s approval.

He would very much like to kiss Valjean now, here under the falling snow and the night sky, at the threshold of Valjean’s home. They pause at the front step, and Javert is aware of his body—the warmth between his legs spread up to his stomach, caught in his chest, almost paralyzing—and his closeness to Valjean—the space between them at once too little and too much—and Valjean’s soft hair and the lines of his face.

“Thank you for the evening,” Valjean says, turning toward the door. Javert cannot stop himself. He grips Valjean’s arm, feels the bicep flex. Valjean is looking up at him and he wills his body to bend, to move, to take this moment, but he hesitates. _Perhaps it is too soon_ , he thinks, _this is all too new_.

Javert’s lips move, but he cannot speak. Valjean pats his arm once, twice, and Javert burns. “I must get to bed,” Valjean says.

Javert lifts his hand from Valjean’s arm. “Of course,” Javert says. “Good night.” 

“Good night,” Valjean nods. Javert stays on the step until he has heard Valjean lock the door inside.

* * *

On the first day of spring, Valjean drags Javert into a fiacre headed to the Gillenormand house. They have been wasting away hours in Valjean’s garden, Valjean planting carrots and beets, Javert watching and handing over tools when necessary. Mostly Javert has enjoyed the opportunity to see Valjean in his shirtsleeves, sweating, to bring him water when the sun grows too hot, to watch him drink and wipe his mouth and say “thank you.” But this morning, a gamin arrived with a letter from Monsieur Pontmercy, and so a fiacre was summoned, and they sit with their sides touching, comfortable.

Valjean is quiet but obviously giddy. “I never thought I would live to see this day,” he says when the fiacre starts to move.

There are many things Javert would like to say. _I am glad you did_ , for one, and _nor did I_ , and _I should like to see you this happy always._ He wants to bottle Valjean’s expression, his soft eyes and mouth set not quite in a smile, but content and relaxed. And now, perhaps more than ever, he wants to kiss Valjean, to taste his happiness, to be a part of it.

Instead he simply leans into Valjean, spreads his legs a bit so they are touching, thigh to knee, and lets his hand rest against Valjean’s. He feels like a young boy again, carefree but a little nervous, butterflies in his stomach. Valjean looks over at him with dewy eyes and Javert feels overwhelmed with affection for him—strange, since he has never felt overwhelmed with affection for anything. But, he thinks, he would be satisfied to spend the day here in this fiacre, touching over layers of clothes.

Upon their arrival at the Gillenormand house, Valjean bounds out of the fiacre without any assistance from Javert, and Javert takes the moment to admire the man’s vitality. Not so long ago, he was wasting away, pouring all of himself into taking care of Javert and putting no effort into his own well-being. Now he is strong again—Javert has watched the muscles of his arms reappear, seen his shoulders broaden. It is an odd path that has led them here. Javert has seen Valjean as beast, and then as God, and now—possibly for the first time—as human.

Valjean raps at the front door and the servant who lets them in is smiling. The whole house seems to be in a warm haze of happiness, all aglow, and Javert, too, cannot help but feel brightened by it. The servant leads them to the sitting room, where Cosette is seated next to Pontmercy on the divan with a bundled thing held in her arms.

“Papa,” she says quietly, and rises to her feet, carefully balancing the bundle. Pontmercy stands with her, thankfully silent, and beams. She places the thing into Valjean’s outstretched arms and he cradles it, gentle, precious. “Her name is Jeanne,” Cosette says. “Marius and I agreed she had to be named after you.”

Even from his position on the periphery, near Pontmercy, Javert can see the wet gleam of Valjean’s eyes, his easy smile. Valjean adjusts the blankets and the thing coos. He laughs and repeats the name. “Jeanne,” he says.

Valjean glances to Javert and Javert feels—privileged, perhaps, to be witnessing Valjean’s overwhelming happiness. He steps closer to Valjean, cautious, and leans to see the thing within the bundle.

Jeanne. A small pink face, squinting green eyes, wisps of hair the shade of Cosette’s. It—she—is so small, maybe the smallest thing Javert has ever seen, and she is perfectly still and calm in Valjean’s arms. She does not cry, only makes satisfied clucking noises, and Valjean seems to scarcely believe she is real. Valjean touches her small, round cheek.

“She is very lovely,” Javert says to no one in particular. He has never said such a thing before.

“You may hold her if you like, monsieur,” Cosette says. But Javert does not know how to approach people, much less infants, and he cannot very well take the child away from Valjean. He shakes his head, inches closer to him.

It is then he realizes that there are tears running down Valjean’s face. Javert can hardly blame him—he was half-dead just months ago, barely well enough to attend Cosette’s wedding, and now he is strong and alive again, a hopeful, breathing thing in his arms, surrounded by love.

 _Oh_.

This man has found a human in the stone of him, cut it loose and taught him how to live. Perhaps it follows, then, that he should care so deeply for Valjean. That he should—Javert thinks it for the first time— _love_ him.

Javert places a hand to Valjean’s back, flat between his shoulder blades, the only comfort he knows how to offer. These touches have grown easier for them; they no longer take Valjean by surprise. Indeed, Javert has learned how best to touch Valjean: over his spine, on the inside of his elbow, the back of his arm. Valjean relaxes beneath Javert’s palm, sighs, and kisses the child’s forehead. 

“I believe this is the happiest day of my life,” Valjean says.

Pontmercy finally speaks up. “You will have to come see her as often as you can,” he says.

“Jeanne,” Valjean says again. “I am blessed.”

They spend what feels like hours there. Valjean’s face is still wet but he is also still smiling—Javert has never seen him smile for so long—and eventually Jeanne falls asleep, overwhelmed by all the new attention. Javert does not hold her, but he is satisfied to watch Valjean cradle the child in his arms, kiss her face and stroke back the thin curls of her hair. Valjean is bathed in love and light, and that is enough.

Before they leave, Valjean promises to come see Jeanne tomorrow and the day after and the day after. Javert, knowing it is stupid even as he thinks it, feels some small pang of envy for this child monopolizing Valjean’s time. But it might mean Valjean will stay happy, and there are few things he enjoys more than seeing Valjean happy.

In the fiacre, they sit close to one another. Paris is finally getting warm again, and Javert feels hot under all his layers, but he cannot pass up the opportunity to touch Valjean. The smile has not faded from Valjean’s face, and it does not fade when Javert slips his hand atop Valjean’s. He curls his fingers around Valjean’s hand, presses into Valjean’s palm, brushes his thumb over the cuff of Valjean’s sleeve. 

Valjean’s fingers squeeze against Javert’s, and Javert is content.

* * *

By mid-May, the Luxembourg Gardens are beautifully, vibrantly green, the flowerbeds in full bloom, the water in the basins stunning and clear. They have taken to spending afternoons here, walking the long corridors of trees and talking. Valjean is delighted to point out each flower they pass, to bend and breathe deeply of its scent, and Javert is delighted—possibly the first time in his life he has ever been delighted—to watch him.

How these flowers and gardens have infected his mind! He thinks of little else—Valjean looking out across the water, helping Valjean up from his seat on the lawn, the two of them passing by a fountain as the sun sets. Javert has often thought of taking Valjean’s hand on their walks here and would do it, were it not so scandalous. It seems natural now, to touch Valjean.

Today, Valjean is more talkative than usual. He has spent the day with Cosette and Pontmercy and Jeanne, and he cannot stop going on about how big Jeanne has already gotten and how her hair is growing ever longer. “She will look just like Cosette,” he says, “though—with his eyes.”

“And you will teach her to be good, no doubt,” Javert says. “She is lucky to have you for a grandfather.”

Valjean blushes. “I am lucky to see her born—I am very lucky.”

Above, the sky is turning shades of purple, and Javert is stuck with words on his tongue he does not know whether to say. They pass the large basin at the center of the garden, their reflections shimmering in the water, and they pause there for a moment. Javert cannot be sure what Valjean is looking at or thinking of, but Javert is looking at _them_ , blurred in the ripples of the water.

Himself, always too tall, always hoping he might one day grow into his limbs. His hair stuck flat against his forehead with sweat—once the color of a chestnut, before that, as a boy, auburn in the sunlight, now silver at the temples and spreading each day. The cravat loose at his neck from too much fumbling, a button of the waistcoat missing. His hands too big, held in fists against his thighs to avoid temptation.

And then Valjean, slightly shorter, broad-shouldered, hair gleaming white in the setting sun. His body, strong now, filled out once again after so many weeks of starving. The scars, hidden but present, the possibility of a smile on his lips. His skin, flushed red from the heat, the corner of a handkerchief sticking out of his pocket. His hands just the right size, open, brave.

Then: a space between the two of them that had once seemed insurmountable. The sleeves of their coats touching, a brush of knuckles, heat.

Javert wants to break their silence. He also wants to kiss Valjean, but that is even less decorous. He settles for speaking—bites his tongue for a moment, thinking, and once they begin walking again, asks, “Are you happy, Valjean?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you happy? I cannot ever tell.” That is not a lie.

“Ah,” Valjean says. “Yes. Inconceivably so.” They turn a corner to where the trees are thicker, the path more circuitous, and there is the scent of pear and apple blossoms in the air. “I am a grandfather now, and I have Cosette, and you—this is more than I have ever had before. I do not deserve it.”

“You deserve all of it and more,” Javert says. The once-stone heart in his chest pounds, all flesh and muscle now, all sinew still learning to stretch and beat and love. The path curves. It is very nearly dusk, and this corner of the garden is empty. Between the leaves, the sky is purple. They are alone.

“Are _you_ happy?” Valjean says.

Javert stops walking. No one has ever asked him that before. He does not know how to answer the question. _Yes, of course, unbearably_ , he wants to say, but it would come off as false. He turns on his heel and faces Valjean. “I—” he starts, but loses any words he had conjured.

“It is not a difficult question, Javert,” Valjean laughs. Of course, Valjean knows better than anyone how complicated happiness can be, and Javert knows this, too.

But now, Javert thinks, Valjean is right. Now it is not a difficult question. He is here with Valjean, in spite of everything, and he places a hand to Valjean’s shoulder without fear. Valjean does not flinch, nor does his body tense under his palm. Valjean is relaxed, and Javert is touching him, and Valjean’s face is kind, unafraid, when Javert slides his fingers underneath Valjean’s jaw. He lifts Valjean’s chin just so, bends, and this time, he does not hesitate.

Javert presses his lips to Valjean’s gently, but not quite chastely. Their noses bump against each other, their mouths do not line up exactly right at first—Javert has never done this before, he has no sense of how it should go, and he squeezes Valjean’s shoulder perhaps a little too tightly. Valjean’s mouth is open; he gasps a bit into the kiss. He tastes of light and cool water and something carved from the earth, blessed by God, and Javert savors it. The violent thump of Javert’s heart slows, settles. He strokes his thumb across Valjean’s cheek when he pulls away.

“I have never known happiness like what you bring me,” Javert mumbles, breathless.

Valjean stands wide-eyed, paralyzed. Javert’s palm is still on his shoulder, and Javert makes circles with his thumb on Valjean’s coat. He can scarcely believe he has just kissed Valjean—can scarcely believe he is still touching him. Cannot at all fathom that Valjean is his.

Eventually, Valjean exhales, and he licks his lips and tries to speak. “Javert—” he begins, and then he clears his throat before speaking again. “I—do not understand.”

Javert feels a sudden pang of anxiety, a worry that he is the one who has misunderstood. He scrambles for words. “Are we not—should I not have—”

Valjean clears his throat again. “No, you—ah, that is not it—”

They talk over one another. “Forgive me, Valjean, I had thought we were—” Javert wrings his wrists and rakes his fingers through his hair.

“No, no,” Valjean is repeating again, his voice kind, his face kind, his hand suddenly on Javert’s arm, kind. “Javert, listen.”

It feels like all the blood in Javert’s body rushes to his head when Valjean touches him. His hair stands on end, his chest heaves, and he wants to apologize more, but Valjean has asked him to listen, and he has always been good at following orders. He stills himself.

“I did not know you thought of me in such a way—no one ever has,” Valjean says. He flexes his fingers around Javert’s arm.

“I thought it was obvious,” Javert says, a bit embarrassed. “I have been making a fool of myself over you these past few months. I—I thought you felt the same.” He briefly recalls Valjean’s ease in touching him, and their evenings spent on the sofa in silence, and the warmth he had felt at realizing his feelings for Valjean. It had all added up—the sum: a strange but fitting romantic arrangement. It had made sense.

Valjean’s hand drops from Javert’s shoulder and he knows he has made a mistake. He is an idiot, that is certain—why would Valjean ever feel the same way about him? After all the years of hell Javert put him through—it is nothing more than a stupid, selfish want.

“I have never considered any of this a possibility for me,” Valjean says slowly. “I am too old for it.”

It is Javert’s turn to clear his throat. “It is, ah, very much a possibility, if you would like it to be.” He straightens his back, dares to look Valjean in the eye. They are the deep, dark brown of fertile earth, full of hope and catching the little light still left in the sky.

Valjean laughs, a hopeless, desperate sound. “I do not know what it means, Javert, I don’t know how.”

Without thinking, Javert’s hand shoots to Valjean’s. He intertwines their fingers, clasps Valjean’s hand in his own, and tries not to be self-conscious about the sweat on his palm. “This,” he says, and he kisses Valjean’s knuckles. It is silly, the kind of thing Pontmercy would do, probably, but it strikes Javert that he does not care how silly he looks. They are alone, after all, and a pear blossom falls from the limb above them.

“That is—not so bad,” Valjean breathes.

“Nothing would change,” Javert says, and he almost laughs, because, of course, _everything_ would change. “I had thought we already were—our dinner, and these walks—taking your hand in the fiacre, that was, ah, not an accident.”

Valjean chuckles, shakes his head, places his free hand to his forehead. “I am blind,” he says.

“And I am a fool,” Javert says.

They do not speak for a few moments, still holding one another’s hands, their fingers still laced together. Javert’s thumb moves over Valjean’s rough skin, sweeping over his knuckle and nail. He wants an answer from Valjean, but will not push him or this. He has already pushed too far.

“You will teach me?” Valjean eventually asks.

This time, Javert laughs, and he presses a kiss to Valjean’s forehead, soft and reassuring. “We will learn,” he promises.

* * *

They spend the summer practicing. It is not such an imposition, to kiss lazily on the sofa before walking home for the evening—or, on the last night of June, to wake up sweating, still clothed, Valjean’s head on Javert’s chest, a hand against Javert’s neck. Halfway through July, they share Valjean’s bed, and they touch tentatively beneath the thin sheets, Javert’s fingertips at Valjean’s collarbone, a kiss to his jaw. Valjean, sharp as always, learns quickly how to tease Javert. Javert does not mind it—it is a gift to see Valjean in his shirtsleeves, the deep V of his shirt revealing the lines of his chest, the planes of muscle. It takes a few weeks before Valjean can initiate their kisses, but it is worth the wait.

Valjean kisses him for the first time, unceremoniously, in the middle of the kitchen on a Sunday afternoon. There is the taste of strawberries in his mouth, sweet and cool, and Javert feels the presence of God. Valjean’s fingers are gentle at his shoulders and he wraps an arm around Valjean’s waist, pulls him close, so their hips are touching. He has still not grown used to being this close to Valjean, the fact that he gets to do this now. Javert slips his fingers under the waistband of Valjean’s trousers, untucking his shirt, and touches the warm skin of the small of his back. Valjean’s mouth drifts, first to the corner of Javert’s lips, then to the crook of his neck, and Valjean buries his head in Javert’s shoulder, sighing. Javert strokes long, easy lines over Valjean’s skin—he feels too-smooth scars beneath his fingertips—and leans his head against Valjean’s. This is bliss, this locked-together feeling, body on body.

For a while, they stay like that, and it becomes a ritual of sorts, kissing in the kitchen, and then in Valjean’s bed—they press their bodies against each other, fall asleep with their lips on the other’s shoulder, do not mention when they wake up with hot aches between their thighs—and eventually, by August, in the garden behind the house. That too has become a sacred thing for them, a kind of sanctuary. Javert, despite Valjean’s best efforts, cannot be convinced to garden with him, though he is happy to massage the sore parts of Valjean’s back and to wipe away his sweat with a wet cloth.

Today is no different—an ordinary day, by all accounts—and Valjean is on his hands and knees in the dirt, picking tomatoes from their vines. The summer’s hottest weather is behind them now, and though Javert is thankful for the relief, he despairs at the possibility of no longer seeing Valjean in his shirtsleeves in the garden. For this reason, he savors this view of Valjean: his shirt loose at his waist, sleeves rolled up to the elbows—he cannot overlook the scars at Valjean’s wrists; he thinks of trailing his lips across them in apology—his trousers tight through the thigh, his body bent and bulging with muscle.

When Javert can no longer ignore his arousal, he fetches water for Valjean. It is mostly an excuse to stretch his legs, but also an excuse to place a hand at Valjean’s back as he drinks and to rub the nape of his neck, which always starts to hurt after so long on the ground. Javert brings a large cup of water for Valjean and approaches him tentatively, bends, touches between his shoulder blades. “It is hot,” Javert says, “come drink.” 

Valjean looks up at him, steadies himself, stands. He takes the cup and drinks greedily, the water running down his chin, over the veins of his neck. “Are you hurting at all?” Javert asks, half hoping Valjean will say yes, just so he can soothe whatever parts of Valjean are in pain.

“Not yet,” Valjean says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Are you not bored, sitting out here doing nothing? You are not obligated to stay with me, you know.”

“I enjoy watching you work,” Javert says. There is a smudge of dirt across Valjean’s cheek and he fixates on it, the way it curves against the lines of Valjean’s face. “Besides, if you were to hurt yourself and I were not here—what then, hmm?”

Valjean chuckles a little and gives in, gives the cup back to Javert, who absently sets it on the table next to the chair behind them. “These tomatoes will be good with supper,” Valjean says. “You ought to have one.”

Javert shakes his head. He does not care about the tomatoes; he cares about the sunlight in Valjean’s eyes and the too-big sun hat on his head and that pesky smudge of dirt on his cheek. He cannot stand it any longer, and he abruptly draws his thumb over the smudge, wiping it away. Valjean’s eyes close at the sudden touch and Javert thinks perhaps he has acted rashly, but he is rewarded with Valjean nuzzling into his palm, lips barely brushing the heel of his hand.

Valjean never ceases to surprise him. He sweeps his thumb across Valjean’s cheek again, feeling the bone underneath, and then over Valjean’s lips, which part, and Valjean’s chin. He thinks he will never grow tired of this; it will never stop feeling new and special. Javert traces the line of Valjean’s jaw and lets his hand slip down to the side of Valjean’s neck, rests it there, and he kisses at Valjean’s cheek, just where the smear of dirt was. Valjean’s skin warms beneath his mouth and Javert pulls him closer, slipping his fingers under the hem of Valjean’s shirt. He trails his lips over Valjean’s face, finally to the corner of Valjean’s mouth, and Valjean turns into the kiss.

They have gotten much better at this since their kiss in the Luxembourg Gardens. Valjean is hesitant at first, careful with lips and teeth, before pressing his palm flat against Javert’s chest. The touch burns and soothes him, like heat to a sore muscle, and Javert relaxes, unwinds. There is still the taste of fresh water in Valjean’s mouth and Javert drinks it in, his fingers slipping down the curve of Valjean’s shirt and lingering at the first button. Valjean’s teeth brush against Javert’s bottom lip as he undoes the button.

This skin is new, untouched. Javert maps it with his fingertips—feels the rise and fall of Valjean’s breath, the sudden gasp at skin to skin. Valjean pulls away and Javert is sure he has made a mistake. Thinks he has done too much with this touch. They are still learning, they have not quite gone this far—their touches have seldom strayed beneath clothes, and certainly have not been so familiar as this.

“Javert,” Valjean breathes, his hand settling at the small of Javert’s back. “Perhaps we should go inside.”

Javert pushes his face into Valjean’s shoulder, turns his head into Valjean’s neck and kisses the sun-blushed skin there. “We are hidden out here,” he says, “the trees and the fence.”

Valjean tangles his fingers in Javert’s hair and pulls him closer, their hips knocking against each other. Javert, already hard, is grateful to feel Valjean’s erection against his thigh. He thinks of undressing Valjean here, now, and lowering him into the dirt and seeing the sunlight bathe his body. He wants to watch Valjean’s fingers dig into the earth, to see his eyes close and his face flush and to bite his bottom lip to keep from crying out. Wants to make him cry out anyway, wants to hear Valjean say his name, wants to take the whole of Valjean into his body.

Valjean would not allow any of that, not yet—it is too soon, too fast, and they have time now to be slow with these things. Still, the urge is there, and Valjean is stroking at the nape of Javert’s neck with his rough fingers and Javert cannot resist it anymore. His lips drift down to Valjean’s throat, the sweet fruit of his Adam’s apple, and Javert tastes sweat there with the tip of his tongue. He undoes another button, and then another, until Valjean’s shirt is open, a long, pale swath of skin finally visible. Javert bends a knee, but then hesitates—he thinks better of it at first, and he straightens himself to kiss Valjean’s jaw again.

“Please let me do this for you,” he says, and his voice is already ragged. Valjean only breathes, the fingers at Javert’s neck suddenly still, as if thinking. Javert is only vaguely aware of anything other than Valjean now, perhaps the ground beneath their feet, and, yes, the cut of light across Valjean’s shoulder, but mostly he is flooded with the possibilities of Valjean’s skin, the scent and flavor of it, and the hope of whatever soft sound Valjean might make.

Valjean nods, lightning-quick, and it is all Javert can do not to fall to his knees then. He mumbles thanks into the lines of Valjean’s muscles, pushes aside the open shirt and kisses the wide span of Valjean’s chest, marked here and there with old scars. Javert cannot even enjoy the weight of Valjean’s hands on his shoulders; he is too focused on all this new territory to explore, to learn. He brushes a thumb over Valjean’s nipple and then kisses there, taking pleasure in the sudden pressure of Valjean’s fingertips digging into his shoulder. Valjean’s breath is shallow, as is Javert’s, and Javert lowers himself to one knee, a palm at Valjean’s hip, another fumbling with the first button of Valjean’s trousers.

“You should not—lower yourself for me,” Valjean says, quiet. Far off, there are birds singing, but when Javert looks up, there is only skin, and the sun, and the long limbs of a pear tree, and Valjean’s trembling lower lip.

“I want to,” Javert says, “desperately.”

Valjean exhales, and that is enough for Javert. He brings himself to both knees, noses against the waistband of Valjean’s trousers. His own prick surges at the knowledge of what he intends to do, and he kisses at Valjean’s stomach, up the V of muscle that frames his hips. Javert cannot undo the buttons fast enough; his fingers are wet with sweat and slip over them, over the stiff outline of Valjean’s prick beneath the trousers. Valjean gasps and Javert commits the sound to memory.

By the time he gets to the last button of Valjean’s trousers, the front is barely staying closed. He is finally able to undo it with his shaking fingers, and—there. It falls open. Javert scarcely knows what to do first—to touch or to kiss or to part his lips and take all of Valjean into his mouth. He presses his face into Valjean’s stomach, his mouth lingering on Valjean’s hipbone, coarse hair beneath his lips.

He has waited for this, wanted this, for so long.

Javert lifts his head from Valjean’s skin, wets his lips, swallows, and opens his mouth. A quick glance to Valjean—he is staring down at Javert, looking half-terrified, biting his own knuckle.

Perhaps not so much so soon. Slow, easy, gentle—things Javert has never been.  Things he has tried to learn for Valjean.

He kisses the base of Valjean’s prick, sucks lightly at the skin there. He does not know what to do with his hands—he hardly knows what to do with his mouth—so he settles his palm at Valjean’s hip, steady, and keeps a tight grip there. Valjean jerks forward when Javert presses another kiss just above the first. To say Javert is aroused by it would be an understatement. He thrills at making Valjean lose control of his faculties like this. Javert leaves these soft kisses up the length of Valjean’s prick until he has reached the tip, sensitive and red and already slick.

Here, Javert licks, slowly and deliberately, and the low sound Valjean makes—like pouring water, like sun breaking through clouds—shoots through Javert’s body, straight to his own prick straining against his trousers. It is difficult for Javert to remain quiet. If he thinks too much about the reality of the situation, it becomes almost too much to bear: he is about to put this man’s prick in his mouth, this man who has taught him to be human, and he is going to do it willingly, and he himself may spend just upon knowing this man’s pleasure.

Javert glances up again. Valjean’s eyes are closed this time, his hand clutched in a fist at his chest, which rises and falls rapidly.

“Valjean,” Javert says, the name taking on a new weight in this light.

Valjean does not respond.

“Valjean,” he says again, louder this time, taking Valjean’s prick in his hand. “Look at me.”

His eyes fly open and Javert slips Valjean’s prick into his mouth. He works in long, slow pulls, the action not quite natural, but easy enough to fall into. He wishes his mouth were wetter, he wishes he had more practice at this, but—Valjean makes a small satisfied noise and thrusts unexpectedly into Javert’s mouth. Javert hears him whisper, “God forgive me,” and briefly wonders if he should stop. He decides against it, instead choosing to draw his tongue up the ridge of Valjean’s prick.

Valjean gasps and his palm lands on the back of Javert’s head, fingers flexing into Javert’s hair, before slipping down to Javert’s shoulder again. Javert takes a moment to place Valjean’s hand back where it was, to look up and nod to Valjean, feeling helpless, and to pump Valjean’s prick with his hand. Valjean strokes Javert’s hair with gentle fingers, as though he is something beloved, and Javert almost wants to weep.

 _I have found heaven_ , he thinks, sucking at the tip of Valjean’s prick. Here, like this, it is easier to understand why Valjean is so happy to get to his knees to pray. This is finding God, this is knowing there is good in the world, this is a happiness Javert never expected to know. Valjean’s prick twitches inside Javert’s mouth and he cannot explain the feeling. The two of them are warmed with sunlight, and Valjean is still stroking his hair, and Javert moans around Valjean’s prick when Valjean’s fingers brush his ear. He is painfully hard, and he thinks of shoving a hand down his trousers and bringing himself off—but this is about Valjean, this is _for_ Valjean.

Javert pauses to lick his lips, to kiss Valjean’s waist and cling to him for a moment. Valjean is a safe harbor, Valjean is a sturdy wall, Valjean is beyond words, Valjean is his. He wishes he knew how to say this aloud. Something in the way Valjean touches his neck suggests that he knows.

He takes Valjean in his mouth once more and works faster this time, thumb caressing the underside of Valjean’s prick. Valjean’s hips jerk again, and Javert’s prick throbs when Valjean’s fingers twist in his hair. Then Valjean goes back to stroking his hair, mumbling an apology between hitched breaths. Javert wants to tell Valjean he does not have to apologize— _quite the opposite_ , he thinks.

Valjean’s breath grows even shallower as Javert continues licking and sucking and pressing his fingers into Valjean’s hip. Javert’s thighs tremble at Valjean’s noises, which grow more rapid, frantic. Javert can barely support himself; he is shaking, and Valjean’s grip on his head is tighter now. He continues to thrust into Javert’s mouth, uncontrollable. Javert is careful with his teeth, he nearly gags on Valjean’s prick, and his heart thuds in his chest, his fingers strain at Valjean’s hip—Javert is sure he will spend soon if Valjean does not. He desperately hopes Valjean will.

Javert manages to pry his hand from Valjean’s hip and cup between Valjean’s legs, stroking gently with the pads of his fingers. Valjean makes a full and resonant and pleased noise, something between a sigh and a moan. It rumbles up from somewhere deep inside and Javert lets it wash over him, taking an obscene kind of pride in knowing he has drawn this sound out of Valjean. It echoes in chambers of Javert’s body he did not know he had, and he aches. Valjean’s prick twitches in Javert’s mouth once more and Javert realizes then how close Valjean must be, and how close _he_ is, too. He varies his speed, licking at the head of Valjean’s prick again and then sucking at the base. His fingers move, slowly at first, then faster, then—Valjean’s hips are rolling, Valjean is moaning Javert’s name, Valjean is pulling Javert’s hair, Valjean is spending in Javert’s mouth.

Valjean’s fingernails dig into Javert’s scalp, his deep thrusts turning to little more than a gentle rocking of his hips. Javert swallows impulsively—he cannot consider the implications of the action because, at his first swallow, all the muscles in his body contract and relax at once. He shudders violently, lips breaking from Valjean’s prick. His trousers are suddenly hot and wet, but he cannot bring himself to care. Javert groans, can hardly keep himself upright, and the last of Valjean’s spend covers his lips, drips down his chin. He licks it away, still shaking. Javert knows he should stand but he cannot bear to move—does not know if he is capable of it, if he knows how to do anything other than remain on his knees for Valjean. He would be satisfied with that.

Javert rests his head against Valjean’s torso, helpless, and feels wrung-out, exhausted. He gasps into Valjean’s skin and wraps his arms around Valjean’s waist. He wants to hold onto him for as long as he can, to let this moment stretch out into hours. He is calm, he is at peace, he is emptied out, he is full. Valjean’s hand slips down to the nape of Javert’s neck and he rubs his thumb there—the most simple, comforting action Javert could hope for. Javert cannot pick out any of the emotions in his head or chest; he feels lost and found, abandoned and saved. It occurs to him that he should button Valjean’s trousers again, but he cannot make his fingers do the work. All he can do is clutch Valjean.

He cannot begin to imagine what Valjean is thinking. Valjean’s breath has slowed now, his prick softened, and Javert is grateful that he begins to button up his trousers. Javert makes a halfhearted effort to assist Valjean, his clumsy fingers getting in the way, Valjean’s hands still trembling. Valjean draws in a sharp breath when he tucks himself away, and Javert is faintly amused, a little lost. After Valjean has done up all the buttons, he gently lifts Javert by the arm, and Javert, still feeling like liquid, allows himself to be pulled up. He leans the weight of his body against Valjean, steady, and then buries his face in the crook of Valjean’s neck once he is on his feet again.

Valjean laughs softly and pats Javert’s back, which is wet with sweat. Ordinarily, Javert might feel embarrassed by Valjean touching his soaked shirt, but he has nothing to be self-conscious about anymore when it comes to Valjean. They have entered this new world together, and it is strange and uncharted but it is theirs. Javert breathes in Valjean’s scent—it is all earth and sun and clean linens. He cannot believe this has happened, that Valjean is here, solid, beneath his hands.

“Javert,” Valjean says, and Javert lifts his head. It takes more strength than it should to separate himself from Valjean; he wants as much of their bodies touching as possible. He never wants to not be touching Valjean again. Valjean kisses him, gently, lazily, and Javert melts into it. At times, this arrangement between the two of them still feels like a dream, and then Valjean kisses him, says his name, and Javert remembers it is real again.

Javert feels a brief pang of embarrassment at Valjean kissing him—the taste of his spend is still sour in his mouth; he is sure there is still some left on his chin. Valjean does not mind, however, or at least he does not mention it, and he kisses Javert until there is only the two of them, the dirt on Javert’s knees, the light and shadow on Valjean’s face. Behind them, the sun is dipping behind the trees, and this day is dying, the summer nearly over. But they are just beginning, and Valjean takes Javert’s hand, mumbles, “Let’s go inside,” and Javert follows.

**Author's Note:**

> In the second section, Valjean is doing the [prayer of St. Bonaventure](http://ewtn.com/Devotionals/prayers/Bonaventure.htm). That section was somewhat inspired by [tvglow's first art here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1427782). Title shamelessly stolen from [this poem](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/248242).


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